


(new) Perspective / (half) Right

by Eremiss



Series: Guinevere Ashe [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: 'I'm gonna keep my mouth shut until I know what I did wrong', Closure, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, Self-Reflection, When the Quiet and Kind one gets Angry, altering in-game events a tiny bit, getting a stern talking to, jumps around in time but not too much, one-sided perspective, that you don't realize you deserve until you do, ye olde swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:40:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22687135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eremiss/pseuds/Eremiss
Summary: Gwen and Minfilia have been gone for a while, and Thancred isn't so near death as he used to be.Now he just has to wait and see who comes back from Nabaath Araeng.Thancred PoVPart one of a two-part story.
Relationships: Ryne | Minfilia & Thancred Waters, Scions of the Seventh Dawn & Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Thancred Waters/Original Female Character(s), Warrior of Light & Thancred Waters, Warrior of Light/Thancred Waters
Series: Guinevere Ashe [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1632004
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	(new) Perspective / (half) Right

**Author's Note:**

> _Takes place at the end of Lvl 77 MSQ Crossroads. Spoilers for that, and mild spoilers for Lvl 77 MSQ A Fresh Start and Lvl 77 MSQ More than a Hunch_

Though her hair is a new, soft shade of red and her sky-blue eyes are free of crystalline glow, Thancred immediately recognizes the First’s Minfilia. She skids down a sand dune and jogs towards them, and the look of relief-tinged trepidation on her face briefly distracts him from the fact that she’s alone.

So…that’s it then. It’s over. He doesn’t know the details, but he can read the outcome easily enough.

The Minfilia of the First…

Which means his Minfilia is…

So…it’s over.

He’d hoped, as foolish as it was, that perhaps Gwen would find a way for both of them to walk away from Nabaath Araeng. But he’d known all along that it was never really an option.

Thancred’s heart is strangely heavy and light at the same time, full to the point of aching with hundreds of things he doesn’t let himself touch or try to label. Later, maybe. Not now. 

He does his best to keep all of that off of his face. 

Minfilia noticeably slows as she approaches them, still red in the face and catching her breath from the trek. By the time she reaches him, her expression has tightened and dipped with apprehension and guilt. She nervously brushes sand off of her dress and seriously considers the ground before speaking, quietly assuring him that she’ll be more helpful now. 

She expects him to be upset or disappointed that she is still herself, rather than his Minfilia?

Well… After what he overheard in Twine coupled with what Gwen has told him, he can’t say it’s an unreasonable thing to be worried about. 

Thancred is only disappointed that a miracle didn’t happen. 

Of course the loss stings, heavy even as the sense of closure it brings lifts an old weight from his shoulders. He would have felt much the same if he’d lost the child he’s watched over for years, though she clearly believes otherwise–which is all his doing, he knows.

There’s a tight lump in his throat that his voice would have to crack and break to fit around, so he reassures her with a gentle smile instead. 

She shyly meets his eyes, staring at his smile as though she doesn’t recognize it before looking away. 

Thancred hefts himself up and steps forward to lay a comforting hand on her head, meeting her surprised look with another smile.

Minfilia’s expression lightens a little, relieved and a little hopeful, before she glances down at her feet. Not quickly enough that he doesn’t catch the telltale glitter of tears.

He swallows thickly once. Twice. “I’m glad you’re back,” is quiet and not quite steady, but the little waver only makes it sound more genuine.

“You don’t have to say that, you know…” Minfilia says weakly, wiping her face on the cuffs of her sleeves. 

That hurts, but a blow he sees coming is easier to withstand than a suckerpunch. One apology for all the things left unspoken and his hundreds of missteps and blunders won’t set years of silence right, but it’s a start.

A hole somewhere near Thancred’s heart is seizing and pulsing like a migraine, hurting in a way he can’t fully explain. Despite that he’s filled with a strange feeling of satisfaction and relief, as though he’s finally received the answer to a question he’s been asking for years. 

He could try to talk around it. Or he could heed what Gwen had asked him in Twine. He settles for a little of both. “But I want to. You’re family. How else would I feel?” 

Minfilia buries her face in her hands, relief pouring off of her in waves. The sweet girl…

A hollow feeling is creeping through him, sharp and grating like sandpaper but not so splintered or frayed as he’d expected. It’s all-encompassing like thick smog, but it’s not enough to smother him. It’s too large and weighty for him to truly hold right then, but it’s not so heavy that he can’t carry it. 

He can… manage. And that’s all he needs to do for now.

Thancred sighs softly and drops back onto the steps, wincing when his bones creak. He _aches_ all over, like he’d been Lyse’s punching bag shortly before getting trampled by a flock of chocobos. But he’s whole and, thanks to Urianger and Y’shtola, is not nearly so close to death as he feels.

After composing herself, Minfilia confirms that she and Gwen did indeed meet with the First’s Minfilia at Nabaath Araeng. She doesn’t share the details and, despite his curiosity, he doesn’t pry. It’s not for him to know. He can live with that. 

On their return journey a Molamander decided the pair of them had looked like easy targets and Gwen had stayed to deal with it while Minfilia ran on ahead. Gwen is more than a match for Ahm Araeng’s wildlife, so it’s only a matter of time before she catches up.

Thancred waits, perhaps a little hopefully. He tries to pretend he doesn’t know why, reminding himself that Gwen’s arrival won’t change anything. What’s done is done and they can only move forward. This isn’t the time or place for trying to piece through and disentangle the complicated things that are making him feel a bit like he’s both sides of a coin that have been smashed together.

It is most definitely _not_ the time to let himself linger on the thought that Gwen has always been a balm for the cracks and chips he pretends not to have. It’s not the time to acknowledge the slow, quiet want for the comfort and solace that her caring, undemanding company has always given him. It’s not the time or place to want for gentle, quiet things like a hug and soft words.

Not now. Not here. He huffs, waiting for those thoughts that he _is definitely not ignoring_ to fall by the wayside. They’ll fade once he’s not sitting stagnant, when there’s a task he can focus on and a direction to go. They have a Lightwarden to find and slay, and that takes priority over aught else.

But for the moment, Thancred waits and watches the top of the hill.

Minutes crawl by like bells before a familiar figure finally appears off to one side of the hilltop they’re all watching.

Relief flickers across a pulse of melancholy, trickling through Thancred like cool water and thinning the smog that’s been stewing in his head. 

Gwen is too far away for Thancred to be able to tell what sort of expression she makes when she spots him on the steps. The way she stills and stares towards him says she can tell, even from there, that he went through hell after she and Minfilia left him.

Thancred sighs, his smile taking on a fond curl. She’s probably been tying herself in knots worrying about his battle with Ran’jit and how the others were faring against the Eulmoran forces. _She worries too much…_ He’ll get an earful or two about his state, surely. Not only does he not mind, he finds he’s almost looking forward to it.

Gwen lifts her hands to her face, lingering at the side of the hill. Probably trying to compose herself, if he has to guess. He considers calling out to her, or maybe standing and meeting her halfway, but decides against it. If she needs time, she can have it. He can wait.

He’s a little taken aback when she bursts into a run without warning. One moment she’s still, the next she’s practically sprinting across the open yalms between them. She reaches him before he can reconsider trying to stand, falling to her knees and throwing her arms around him in a desperate embrace that nearly knocks him flat against the stairs.

Thancred smiles through a private wince, relaxing despite the way her hug makes him ache from head to toe. He leans into her and slides his arms around her waist, some of the loose, cracked things in his chest abruptly settling. He can’t say everything is alright, but it’s not as far away from it as he feared it would be. He can manage.

Gwen suddenly pulls away.

He doesn’t try to stop her, letting his hands settle confusedly on her waist as she draws back to arm’s length.

Her head is angled down in a way that lets her bangs obscure eyes and she swipes the back of her wrist across them, as if wiping away tears. 

Thancred gives her a rueful smile, tightening his grip on her waist a little in place of another hug. It’s not surprising she’s struggling a bit now that everything is catching up to her, all of the thoughts and emotions that were left behind for the sake of focus finally beginning to sink in. But she’s among friends and there’s no need to worry so much about keeping–

Gwen reaches out with both hands and grips his coat in tight, twisted fistfuls like she means to anchor him in place.

–composure…?

Thancred opens his mouth as she lifts her head, and his words shrivel and die in his throat.

——

Thancred closes the door to his apartment and sags against it with a heavy sigh. Every ilm of him is pulsing with fatigue and dull pain. 

He notices that he can breathe easily even though his chest is thick and tight. His mind is light in some ways and heavy in others. The inside of his head is gritty, raw and covered in fuzzy layers of tiredness that make him glad the day is finally over. Sharp things poke at his thoughts here and there, wrapped in enough cottony haze that he has to lean on them for a moment before the pain begins to register. 

There’s a lot going on beneath the fuzz; muffled things that drift, crackle and churn. It’s taking up the majority of the space between his ears and getting in the way of more practical thinking. 

He doesn’t try –or want– to sort through all of that nonsense, but at a glance he can at least identify a few of the parts.

There’s definitely relief, though it’s oddly shaped. He’s unburdened in some ways, but not others; filled with a curious sense of bittersweet satisfaction. 

A lot of it is weariness wrapped up in petty gripes about the day’s trials. He’s sodding _tired_. 

Thancred stands at the door, thoughts drifting around and sliding in and out of focus. His legs throb, slight at first and quickly worsening. Eventually it’s enough to get him moving again. He wanders aimlessly towards the kitchenette, each step granting a bit of relief. He hovers indecisively before shucking out of his coat and dropping it on a chair at the old table. 

It takes a moment for him to come to the realization that he hasn’t really thought about what to do after returning to his rooms.

Everyone had ordered him to rest as they journeyed back to the Crystarium, each of them repeating it every now and then until he was full sick of hearing it. He can’t really blame them for nagging, given his habit of disregarding such trifling things like ‘sleep’ and ‘taking care of himself’. With that in mind he’d kept the majority of his grousing to himself, weathering their concern and good intent with various frowns and rolled eyes.

Rest, then. 

The thought makes his armor feel heavier, the weight he’s so accustomed to carrying suddenly dragging on him and digging uncomfortably in a few places. 

Thancred claws at buckles and latches, loosening his chestplate before tugging off his gloves and tossing them onto the table. He drops into a chair to work at his boots next, one hand occasionally wandering to loosen other straps and buckles in an effort to speed the coming steps. He distantly misses the lighter clothes he used to wear on the Source, then remembers they wouldn’t have provided half as much protection as this occasionally- cumbersome armor. 

As armor clatters to the floor his aches and pains change shape rather than fading away. Some lessen without the weight to aggravate them, while others swell in the absence of the compression that had kept them contained.

Thancred sighs with relief he only half-feels once he’s fully freed from the confines of his armor. His body doesn’t feel lighter, though he knows that it is; he’s far too worn to feel anything even approaching ‘light’. 

He sinks back and simply and aches for a while, slowly fumbling around for the train of thought he’d lost. He’s never been particularly fond of the kitchen chairs, but the one he’s sitting in is wonderfully comfortable all of a sudden. 

When his thoughts begin to slip in earnest Thancred groans and lifts his head, raising a hand to rub at some grit near his eye. He’s not so far gone that he’s going to pass out in a kitchen chair, no matter how tempting the idea may seem. His back and rear will thank him for his good judgment later.

Thoughts about quiet, comforting company and soothing touches flicker by for a moment and then fade. 

The little irritations and scratches of sand rubbing against his skin coax him out of his head. He considers his fingers and the smattering of stubborn grains that are somehow still clinging to his skin. His shirt and pants are much the same, sand chafing and scratching different places every time he moves. Apparently it hadn’t all come off with his armor, nor been knocked free by all the walking.

Damn deserts…

Shower first, then rest. He’s ignored his exhaustion this long, he can manage it for a little longer. 

——

Gwen’s expression is sharp and fierce, straining tendons making harsh lines on her neck. Her mouth is crumpled and curled halfway between a snarl and a grimace. A knotted muscle in her jaw hints at how tightly she’s clenching her teeth.

Thancred’s thoughts short out. His lifting mood withers into nervous confusion. A burst of instinctive panic sends skittish energy prickling across his skin. He shifts his weight back like he’s leaning away from a fire, stopped short by her iron-hard grip on his coat.

Her eyes are sharp and glassy like obsidian when they lock with his; feverish and full of raw, jagged emotions that roil and crackle like stormclouds. 

The sheer intensity of it leaves him winded. 

_Her eyes really do get darker when she’s angry_. He’d half-convinced himself he’d only imagined it in the past. _More corbeau than basil now_. 

But Gwen doesn’t look _angry_. She looks _furious_. 

His hands jump from her waist and his teeth click audibly together. He’s not sure what else to do, at a loss for the cause of this sudden ire. 

Gwen’s stifling gaze doesn’t relent, even for a moment.

Thancred swallows around a dry mouth and tight throat, nervousness thickening into worry. His insides are squirming uncomfortably, heart skipping more quickly than it should. 

He tries to tell himself that he’s only so shaken because of everything that’s happened. He’s still raw with the resolution of the conflict that had been tearing at him for years. He’s off balance. If he weren’t, then… Then…

There’s a sharp edge of expectation to the harsh silence. Thancred is strangely certain some sort of apology is owed. For what, he’s not sure. Hells, that might not even be right. But he can’t think of anything else to do, and apologizing is certainly a _safe_ option. 

But for _what_?

Just that morning they’d been so… He’d bared his soul and opened up about Minfilia, about all his missteps and regrets. She’d listened, her head on his shoulder and her hand in his. She’d asked questions and smiled… Then she’d expressed concern about the First’s Minfilia, and about everything he was leaving unsaid. Of course she was concerned, as she was so given to worrying. She’d said she knew she didn’t have the right of things when it came to the goings-on inside his head, and she knew he was trying to be better, but he was being so closed, and whatever misconceptions were had he just left to fester. She trusted him, but she worried –of course– for him, little Minfilia and the Source’s Minfilia. 

_“Your silence isn’t saying what you intend it to,” she’d said, squeezing his hand. “Surely you can tell Minfilia_ something _?”_

He hadn’t answered. He wasn’t quite so stubborn as to claim she was wrong–but she wasn’t _right_ either. He was sure it stung for him to dig in his heels and be so closed at every turn, but she didn’t _understand_. And he _couldn’t_ explain. Not _yet_.

She’d…seemed disappointed, and maybe a little frustrated. Understandable. He would have been too. He could make up for whatever hurts came of his silence and walls later. They had far larger concerns right then.

Rather than beat a dead chocobo Gwen had settled for squeezing his hand again and quietly reminding him that she was there for him, and for Minfilia. Both of them.

Admittedly, he had never, even once, considered allowing himself to lean on her or seek the support she so readily offered. That probably stung, too.

Now Gwen is here glaring at him with such _vehemence_. She hasn’t said a single word, sitting there in horrid silence and cutting him to the bone with a baleful glare that looks so very _wrong._

Thancred shrinks a little despite himself. Something a lot like guilt is making him queasy.

 _Say something, Gwen. Anything just– Gods’ spit, don’t look at me like that_.

A bit of scolding for his recklessness and readiness to sacrifice himself would be fair. And a bit more for how he’s mishandled everything with the First’s Minfilia till now. He can admit he’s earned that. But not this silent fury, surely? 

Clearly Gwen disagrees, given the way she’s still glaring at him with furious, wet eyes and…

…Wet?

——

The warm shower clears up the haze of his thoughts a little, which means everything is free to start knocking around in earnest. Thancred’s head quickly begins to ache from the strain of holding it all in. He leans his forehead against the wall and breathes in steam, the shocking chill of the tiles immediately easing the first throbs of pain. The steady drum of hot water soothes everything else, tip-tapping out knots and aches while washing away sand, dirt and blood. 

His idling thoughts slide back towards the events of that day as if drawn by a magnet. Everything worked out in their favor in the end but none of it had gone to plan, including Gwen’s return from the wall of light. 

She hadn’t spoken so much as a syllable to him when she arrived, but she hadn’t needed to. The look on her face had said everything that words could, along with plenty of things they couldn’t. She was furious at herself for leaving him behind, and he expects she’ll claim she abandoned him. She was furious that he’d been so determined to stay, to prove to Ran’jit, and to himself, that he’d done the right thing for Minfilia rather than doing more to prove it to _her_. She was furious that he’d been so willing to die, as though laying down his life were the best thing he could do to prove that he cared rather than simply _saying so_ or _acting like it_. 

He doesn’t have to wonder what it’s like for each second to feel like a bell. For confidence to remain intact yet dwindling by the moment. He knows what it feels like to worry and reassure himself, to cling to hope even though calling it such makes it seem feeble and so much less certain. After all, how many times has he left her to fight while he pressed on? 

But she’s not him, as he well knows.

Thancred wonders how long she’s been biting her tongue and holding all of that… _that_ in. Since their path sent them towards Nabaath Araeng? Since she’d reunited with him in Il Mheg? Since she set foot on the First? Hells, some unresolved hurting from the Source may have been involved, too. There has been so _much_ going on, here and back home, for so long… It’s no surprise the innumerable things that she’s held in are finally starting to break free.

He was never quite foolish enough to think Gwen would never hit a breaking point, even before witnessing it firsthand on the Source. It’s more the _frequency_. He can count on one hand –with fingers to spare– the number of times that she’s given in to the pressure of buried feelings, stifled frustrations, swallowed words and everything else that’s unbecoming for a hero of legend. She always sought privacy for those rare occasions, and tended to lend herself more to weariness, frustrated tears and hair-pulling.

Today marked the second time that her level head and steady mood failed her since she arrived on the First. And both times she was far more sharp-edged and angry than she had ever been on the Source.

Rather, today is the second time that he’s aware of. The necessity for such specification irks him. 

They’re not so close, he’s only just grasping, as they had been on the Source. He wants to say it’s natural and nothing to worry about, as time apart naturally begets distance. They’d changed, and they needed to relearn how to fit together like they had before. 

And, maybe… Maybe neither of them have really had the time or mental capacity to put much effort into that. They’ve been busy, after all. It’s no one’s fault but the Ascians’ and the sin eaters’. As they’d agreed to years ago, duty takes priority over their relationship. 

Despite everything they’ve shared – _she’s_ shared, he’s been tight-lipped, as always– in their time together on the First, despite the numerous occasions they’d sought one another’s company and companionship, he hasn’t been able to shake the uncomfortable feeling that… they aren’t so close as they were. He has no solid proof, or at least nothing he will _allow_ to be solid proof, but he’d sensed hints of disquiet and distance in her journal. 

Like with most of his problems on the First, Thancred had… folded his arms, squared his shoulders and waited for it all to work out on its own. 

Well, it finally had.

He wonders if she found any relief or resolution in giving voice to thoughts she’s been stifling for so long; if she felt any better now that the proverbial dam had given way. Or if that had merely been a small piece of something much larger, the rest of which she’d managed to keep behind her teeth; something he was utterly unaware of before today.

Either way, knowing she’d been brought so close to the edge, particularly without him noticing, is uncomfortable and heavy in his head. He should have noticed. He should have at least had some idea.

Honestly, he isn’t surprised that all of the trials and tribulations are getting to her so much more potently than they had before. If one world was already a struggle, of course two is nigh unmanageable… But there’s more to it than that. He knows there is. Damned if he’s been able to suss out the rest of it, though.

Thancred sighs, shifting to press his temple to a new patch of wall. It’s not nearly as cool as the first spots, and he realizes he has no idea how long he’s been in the shower.

The water is still running warm, so not _too_ long.

He glances up at the ceiling and recalls staring up at the bright blue desert sky.

As it turns out, lying around on the edge of death really puts things in perspective. Suddenly it’s easy to be honest, and there’s no walls or knots or fears to get in the way of recognizing what and who matter most. It’s a great time for a bit of self-reflection, too, and recounting every little misstep and fumble on the path that led to that point, and realizing all of the ‘should have, would have, could haves’ that were missed. It’s just about the best catalyst for bringing about a bit of closure… if one is ready for it. Or regret, if they’re not.

Thankfully, he’d been ready.

He had plenty of time to think about his Minfilia. About Ryne. About Gwen. About Y’shtola, Urianger, Alphinaud, Alisaie and everyone else back home–both living and dead.

About himself, too, and the innumerable ways he so spectacularly mishandled… a lot of things.

Heartache, grief and the struggle to do the right thing can do strange things to people. Particularly when they all happen at once. 

Thancred lingers for perhaps too long, brooding and occasionally getting lost in the darkness behind his eyelids. Eventually the warm water and steady white noise become a genuine threat to his consciousness and he turns the shower off.

——

Thancred takes in the wetness that’s gathering at the edges of Gwen’s eyes. 

The skittering panic and nervousness slow a little, a thought starting to come together.

Her lips are trembling faintly despite her efforts to twist them into stillness. Her breathing is controlled but harsh.

Maybe…not furious. Or not _only_ that.

He decides to risk breaking the silent stalemate. His tongue feels dry enough to snap when he drags his voice, carefully and quietly, out of his throat, “Dove?” _Say something._ Do _something. Anything._

Something behind her eyes cracks, the heavy shadow that looks so much like anger suddenly begins to crumple like paper. Her mouth bends and warps a different way, jaw shifting in an effort to restrain any words that try to slip free. Her expression tightens further, twisting inward. She’s shivering, shaking from head to toe like she’s in the middle of a Coerthan blizzard rather than a scorching desert.

Thancred can’t tell whether she’s about to scream herself hoarse or break down sobbing. Given the look on her face, it could be either. Or both.

Gwen shifts with visible effort, the small movement like an explosion compared to her statue-like stillness. She finally tears her gaze from his.

It feels as though some monstrous, paralyzing weight has finally slid off of him. Thancred nearly wheezes, only just realizing he’s been holding his breath.

The others, he notices, are yalms farther away than they had been when Gwen arrived. They weren’t able to see her face, but seeing _his_ was apparently warning enough. They’re all desperately looking elsewhere, wearing nervous expressions and trading awkward glances in silence. Minfilia is clinging to Urianger’s robes and hiding behind his legs. 

Gwen hasn’t noticed, too busy raking her gaze over him and taking stock of his injuries. She scrutinizes every mark of his battle with Ran’jit– every tear and bloodstain, every cut and bruise. His eyes flit aside every time hers jump back to the cut on his cheek or his split lip. He’s not sure he can stand the assault of her gaze again.

It feels like bells pass before Gwen’s eyes close with some vague sense of finality. She takes heavy, measured breaths, still gripping his coat like a vice.

Thancred’s earlier thought creeps back: not furious, more like furious _ly_. Furiously _what_ , though? He’s not sure, but it’s something to work with.

Worried about how he would fare against Ran’jit? Reasonable enough, but seeing him alive and recovering should surely be easing that.

Angry? That one is troublingly plausible, but he can’t recall doing anything grievous enough to warrant this sort of reprisal. Perhaps angry at herself for leaving him, or him for forcing the issue, or both?

Bereaved? It’s true that losing Minfilia hit him harder than anyone else, but that doesn’t mean he’s the only one hurt by it. Grief is a tricky beast, and it does strange things to people– as he well knows.

Overwhelmed, because it’s all of those at once? And maybe more? A great deal has happened today, and there had already been plenty going on; between worrying about the light she’s absorbing, Emet-Selch’s words about Hydaelyn and Zodiark, speculation about tempering, forcing herself to leave him to his likely death, losing their Minfilia…

Actually, it’s only just dawning on him that this whole day has played out in an eerily similar fashion to an evening from years ago –more for him, less for her– that involved a banquet, poisoned wine, a ruined sewer, and an unexpected stint of incorporeality in the Lifestream. 

Ah… Well, he can certainly see how rehashing that rather devastating, life-upending scenario might touch a nerve or three.

Gwen opens her eyes again, dark, stony green now bright with aching cracks and glittering with clear crystal. His own gaze skirts aside again, lest the weight of it cut him to shreds.

The urge to offer comfort kicks at him, but it’s difficult to find the will to act. His stillness and complete attention have been working thus far, and she doesn’t look terribly open to sympathy at the moment. He tries, “Gwen…” but his voice is small and uncertain. 

A tear slips free and drags a few more with it, leaving damp trails down her cheeks. “No more of–” Gwen’s voice is quiet and so hard it’s starting to crack. 

He regrets wishing the silence away.

She’s struggling for words, “Of this– your–” She sucks in a breath and tenses.

He braces himself, half-wincing. 

It’s somehow worse that she doesn’t scream like he’d expected. Her voice comes out quiet and rough like each word takes effort to get past her teeth without letting it crack or burst, “No more of your hard-hearted, closed off _bullshite_.” 

Thancred isn’t sure if he’s supposed to answer, or what to say if he is. He tries to pretend he doesn’t know _exactly_ what ‘hard-hearted, closed off bullshite’ she’s referring to, even as his gaze flicks to the strands of red hair peeking out from behind Urianger’s robes.

“No more ‘waiting for the right _swiving_ time’. No more pretending the _godsdamned_ ends justify living in pain or being so coldhearted to a _child_. You’re supposed to be her father, so _man the hell up_ and tell her what she needs to hear. Stop biting your _sodding_ tongue and thinking it’s doing any _good_.”

He didn’t expect all of the swearing. He wishes he could find it amusing.

“No more sitting on your hands in _swiving_ silence and waiting for everything to work itself out. No more being a tight-lipped, bitter _arse_ and leaving your friends in the _swiving_ dark while you suffer on your own for no _godsdamned_ reason. You’re not alone you stubborn, thickheaded _hobson._ You have people that _care_ so much about you–” Her expression strains and twists and she reigns it in with effort. “Your friends _worry_ about you and want to _help_ you. When they have the _audacity_ to try, _godsdamnit_ , **_let them_**.”

Thancred is at least a little confident that this pause for breath won’t end with her screaming at him. 

He’s right.

“And I– I was– I-I’m never–” Her voice catches and she stops. She shifts her grip on his coat, fabric straining audibly in her fingers. “I am _never_ leaving you or anyone else behind _ever again. Never_. I am _sick_ and _tired_ of losing people I care about. And don’t you _dare_ try to tell me otherwise.”

It’s the most comforting threat he’s ever heard. That doesn’t lessen the fact that it’s definitely a _threat_. 

Pragmatism and logic whisper that he can’t promise such a thing. He can’t honestly agree to anything she’s just asked of him. 

Gwen’s expression and posture shift a little, a sense of expectation suddenly crystalizing in the bristling, oppressive silence. 

Apparently he’s supposed to respond now. 

Thancred ducks his head, feeling a bit like he’d just gone another round with Ran’jit. _She’s never cursed at anyone like that_. His voice is thin and dented after squeezing past the knots in his throat, “Alright.”

Gwen goes still, as if his agreement stunned her. She takes slow, audible breaths, her chest heaving like all of the hard words have left her winded.

He avoids her gaze while trying to gauge her reaction. She didn’t immediately launch into more reprimanding, so… But she isn’t exactly _doing_ anything, either…

Her balance wavers and her expression begins to crumble. She sags like a sail without wind, and he nearly jumps when she drops her forehead against his shoulder.

Thancred waits, perfectly still despite the buzz of nervous energy under his skin. Gwen seems to have crested whatever wave she’d been riding, but that doesn’t mean she’s done.

She makes a choked sound and sniffles softly, pressing her forehead more firmly against his shoulder.

It hits like a hammer, breaking through his nervous rigidity until he’s finally loosened enough to move. He holds his breath and touches a tentative hand to her back. 

Gwen’s grip on his coat goes slack and she all but collapses against him with another stifled sound.

Thancred breathes a slow sigh and allows himself to relax. He leans his head against hers and lets his hand settle on her back, “Breathe, dove.”

——

Thancred pulls on loose, clean pants and gets so far as picking up a new shirt before deciding the effort isn’t worth it. He instead uses it to clear a place on the mirror so he can take a better look at his new collection of bruises and cuts. He frowns grumpily at the splotch of purple and brown that’s bloomed around the cut under his left eye, and it aches lightly in retaliation. 

In his more hedonistic days he would have been far more upset about how the unsightly blemish would detract from his charm. Now he’s bothered by the inconvenience of the placement, the unavoidable reminder of everything that happened that day that will linger for longer than he likes. He can ignore it, just as he’s ignored so many past injuries and other things, but the placement irks him, just like all of the still-aching things it reminds him of.

Gwen has a few oils and ointments of her own creation for softening scars and hastening the fading of bruises. Her concoctions had worked wonders on the rare occasion his assignments went a little more roughly than planned. Perhaps he could… 

But that’s on the Source, not here. He doesn’t know if she’s yet found a way to replicate them, or if she’s even tried. 

Probably not, given that she’s had no time to study Norvandt’s woefully limited flora and fauna, let alone experiment with any of it.

Thancred brushes his fingers over the thin seam on his lower lip and wonders what she’s up to right now.

Hopefully sleeping. She’d looked even wearier than him when they’d parted ways at the edge of the Aetheryte plaza.

The bruise aches when Thancred frowns again. Now that he’s thinking of their return to the Crystarium…

——

Gwen struggles for minutes on end. She doesn’t hug him, instead clinging weakly to his coat and relying on him to keep her upright while she wrestles with herself.

Thancred waits, gradually growing less skittish and finding his balance again. He rubs slow circles on her back and mumbles gentle things and little reminders to breathe.

Every little sniffle and hitch in her breath makes something in him clench and throb like a pulled muscle. This is twice now that she’s found the end of her rope since arriving on Norvrandt.

Thancred isn’t sure which of the day’s myriad events served as the straw that broke the chocobo’s back. He’s also a bit murky about what it was that pushed her so close to the edge in the first place. In the end, he supposes, it doesn’t matter.

Gwen pulls away the moment she deems herself sufficiently calm, stiffly freeing her hands from his coat. She curls and flexes her fingers before wiping at her still-glassy eyes.

Clench. Throb.

She glances at his face but doesn’t meet his gaze, something like unease beginning to tug at her mouth and shift the angle of her brows. She gets to her feet before he can fully identify what it is, purposefully not looking at him and brushing sand off of her clothes with short, jerky movements. 

No one speaks.

Gwen worries her lip and picks at her gloves, her face as red as her vest, and finally notices how wide a berth the others have given them. Her expression turns stricken, nervous discomfort about her uncharacteristic and explosive display thickening into genuine apprehension that has her shoulders hiking up to her ears.

“I, ah…” She clears her throat and offers a feeble semblance of a smile, something fragile and much more potent than embarrassment lurking beneath the sheepish look on her face. 

Clench. Throb.

Thankfully their friends tactfully –if clumsily– sidestep the whole ordeal and don’t say a word about it. Thancred knows it’s because she’s plainly in no state for teasing or trying to make light of the situation, but he can’t help thinking they’re also trying to avoid earning withering looks, curse-laden grievances and ominously-reassuring threats of their very own. 

Alphinaud makes a valiant effort to shift everyone’s attention as they gather together again, jumping straight into the topic of what their next move should be. The conversation is a bit clunky and awkward at first, especially with the occasional glances that shoot one way or another, but a proper discussion comes together quickly enough.

Given the way the bright red softens and fades from Gwen’s face and her posture slowly relaxes, she’s grateful for it.

As they muse over the Lightwarden’s location and what all might be standing in their way, they come to the topic of little Minfilia. 

Y’shtola raises the point: If she’s to have her own life, shouldn’t she have her own name, as well?

Minfilia seems surprised but moved by the idea, though she has no suggestions to offer. Names are important things, and coming up with a proper one is not an easy task. 

After a brief discussion, and a few inane suggestions that are met with appropriate amounts of amusement and derision, all eyes turn expectantly to Thancred.

Knowing looks and smiles that look more like smirks accompany comments about him being her guardian, and his scarcely-recovered steadiness is almost lost. Of all the times to be put on the spot…

…Not that he isn’t prepared. He will never tell anyone just how long he’s spent thinking of new names for little Minfilia on the off-chance she ever happened to decide that she wanted a name all her own and was in need of suggestions.

Thancred takes a moment to think even though a name immediately springs to his tongue. Eventually he says, “Ryne.”

Somehow it only feels like days ago that he offered ‘Minfilia’ to a different girl in a different place.

She repeats it a few times, testing the sound and the feel of it on her tongue. She looks more thoughtful than pleased. 

Everyone is staring. The pensive silence and air of expectation make him itch. 

He shifts his weight subtly, glancing aside and grasping for unaffectedness. He readies an offer to come up with something else and pretends it’s not the next name on a list of more than two-dozen.

Her expression brightens, warm and so very touched it makes his heart melt. She says, “Ryne,” with the sort of confidence and familiarity that nearly makes it feel as though it had been her name all along.

It fills him with a lightness that equals and nearly outweighs the melancholic ache of Ascilia accepting ‘Minfilia’. He does his best to push that off to one side, somewhere it could wait until he properly had the time to handle it.

Thancred’s blithe dismissal of Urianger’s dumbfounded realization that he had, in fact, paid attention to all those lectures about the fae earns another round of quiet amusement and fondly rolled eyes. Even Gwen smiles and laughs a little.

The normalcy of it all helps him pull away from the tender feelings and swirling ache that are climbing his throat and making his eyes sting. _Sentimental fool…_ he thinks with a slight smile and a quiet scoff.

Later. He’ll deal with it later.

Ryne’s newfound abilities point them to the southwest, and they set out at once. Much as they could all do with a chance to recover and let the dust of recent events settle, they don’t have the time. The Eulmorans aren’t breathing down their necks at the moment, but who’s to say how long they’ll stay away? Rest and reflection are luxuries they can’t afford until the Lightwarden is dead and they’re safely back at the Crystarium. And even then, their reprieve will be brief. 

As long as light continues to scathe the First, and as long as Eulmore sides with the sin eaters, their work isn’t done.

Gwen doesn’t speak much during the trek to Malikah’s Well. To him or anyone else. She walks at the front but not beside him, staring pensively at the sand while the slow shifts in her expression hint that her mind is in constant motion. She’s back to fidgeting, at least, and busies her hands by alternately tugging at her gloves, the hem of her shirt and the various wraps of cloth around her hips. 

It doesn’t sit well with Thancred, mostly because it always bothers him to see her so troubled. He also can’t help being acutely and uncomfortably aware of the distance and silence with every step they take. It does nothing to help settle all the things that her harsh look and heavy words had cracked open and left raw, years of quiet worries and doubts that he’d buried suddenly trying to bubble up to the surface.

Clench. Throb.

The walk is mercifully uneventful, and by the time they reach Malikah’s Well Thancred has stretched and worked out enough of the lingering knots and strains to feel properly on the mend.

Gwen finally breaks her contemplative silence to bicker with him about the fact that he intends to be at the forefront of their expedition into the eater-infested mines. 

Thancred isn’t at one hundred percent, it’s true, but he’s fighting-fit and in no more of a precarious situation than usual. The aches and pains he’s bearing are residual, the lingering aftereffects of wounds that have healed and no longer pose a threat, which means he’s not so damaged as he feels. Besides, even if he were still in a bad way, he’s the only one out of their group properly equipped to draw and defend against the attacks of sin eaters, especially many at once. Him leading the charge just makes tactical sense.

Her assertion that she can easily tap into her Dark Knight soulstone and take his place is fair. As is the fact that she isn’t fresh from getting seven shades of hell kicked out of her.

Sound as her logic is, and despite the fact that he doesn’t have many –or _any_ – suitable rebuttals, Thancred holds his ground. Admittedly, it’s partially out of stubborness. He’s taken plenty of beatings before and been fine for it, and he doesn’t intend to let this one stop him. 

From a less hardheaded standpoint, he knows Gwen hasn’t been fond of donning that dark armor ever since her confrontation with someone named ‘Myste’ after Ala Mhigo’s liberation. To do so now would only be another strain for her to endure, and between her earlier, ahem, _scolding,_ the faint shadows beneath her eyes and the sag of her shoulders it’s obvious she’s worn thin enough as it is. She looks like she barely has the strength to wield her rapier, nevermind swing around her monstrosity of a zweihander. 

It has been a _long_ day.

Thancred doesn’t mention any of that. Partially because he’s loath to throw privately shared hurts and confessions out into the open, and partially because the line between what she shared and what he learned in secret has grown dangerously blurred. The facts themselves are still clear and relatively orderly, but how he came by them is… less so.

It’s hardly surprising that everything is a bit blended together after so many years. 

But for Gwen it’s only been _moons_. He doesn’t doubt for one second that she has a far keener understanding of what he should and shouldn’t know. 

Now may well be the absolute _worst_ time to risk outing himself.

Instead, he resorts to the method that has served him well in the past: pure, unwavering stubbornness.

“Urianger and Y’shtola saw to my wounds and, lest you worry, they were quite thorough about it. I assure you I’m in proper fighting condition.” He pretends not to see the sidelong look said healers shoot him. “Your concern is touching as ever, but your energy would be better spent readying to fight our way through this pit.”

Gwen remains unconvinced, arms folded and brows knit. She regards him steadily, her frown made crooked by the way she’s worrying at her lip.

She looks…different.

Thancred blinks to make sure he’s seeing clearly.

Yes, something is different about her, but it’s difficult to say what. She still looks weary, and her stubborn worry for his health looks as it always does, but at the same time… She’s holding herself with a strangely familiar sort of steadiness and quiet confidence. 

He’s reminded of the Source for a moment; of expressing genuine care and concern with gentle fussing, mild frowns, lighthearted arguing and small battles of stubbornness. 

She looks more _herself_ , he realizes. More like his memories of the Source.

When…? And why now?

Perhaps today put an end to more hurts and than just his own. Maybe she’d worked out a thing or two between her words to him and the trek to the Well.

The thought makes a few tense things begin to loosen.

Whatever the cause, and whether or not it’s merely his battered mind playing tricks, he decides to take the seeming-reemergence of her calmer, more patient nature as a good sign.

“I’ll admit,” he gestures at himself, “I perhaps don’t _look_ up to the role, but don’t let a bit of dirt fool you. I assure you, I’m fully capable of getting us through this pit. If only healing magicks could mend clothes as well as injuries, eh? Alas.”

The mention of his clothes sends her gaze flickering over all the scuffs and tears again.

Her frown bends a little more and her brows come a little closer together.

Despite how nice it is to see the familiar tells of her skepticism, Thancred winces inwardly. _Shouldn’t have drawn her attention back to that._

Seeing that this was going nowhere fast, Thancred decides to change tack. He knows his little pet name will get to her, just as it always has, and with any luck that will be enough to put this debate to rest. His reasoning is a little underhanded, maybe, but they’re in no state for an argument. He wouldn’t want one even if they were. 

He softens his tone a little, “Dove.”

Gwen’s expression changes, easing just slightly as her attention and focus take on a different sort of weight.

“I appreciate your concern, truly I do, but you worry overmuch.” Thancred rests a steadying hand on her shoulder and squeezes. His small, patient smile is genuine but rusty. “It’s not as though I’m going it alone, and I’ve no intention of being reckless. As long as you and the others have my back, there’s naught to worry about.” 

Her shoulder relaxes under his hand as the stiff set of her posture begins to soften. Her expression shifts again, growing conflicted and vaguely guilty as she labors to find the energy to protest further. 

Knowing her, it wouldn’t be a stretch to think she’s blaming herself for his current state. She knows full well that he’s capable, and doesn’t want to argue or fight with him; but she doesn’t want to stand by and let him throw himself in harm’s way, either.

Thancred can still see a bit of that familiar, same-old-self he’d glimpsed, but that sense of steadiness has been overshadowed by the look in her eyes. The storm from before has lessened somewhat, but it’s still very present.

Between her ears must be absolute bedlam.

Knowing that the two of them could be at this for hours if left to their own devices, Alphinaud and Urianger finally intervene. Their reassurances –in Thancred’s favor, which is something of a surprise– combined with another reassuring squeeze of her shoulder and a flash of an equally-rusty roguish smile are enough to settle the matter.

Gwen relents with a sigh. “Alright, you can take the fore.” She gives him a look that’s softer and starting to crease with worry, “Just… be careful.”

He squeezes her shoulder again. “You have my word.”

And just like that, it’s settled.

She lets the whole thing go rather more easily than he expected, but he knows better than to push his luck. He’s getting what he wanted, isn’t he? 

Clench. Throb. But a little bit lighter than before.

Thancred welcomes the distraction of fighting sin eaters.

Leading the charge through Malikah’s Well takes quite a toll on him, though not so much of one that he can’t keep his feet by the time Storge falls. He is thoroughly looking forward to sleeping for a week–or however long Norvrandt’s ever-pressing circumstances will allow.

Thancred watches as Gwen lifts a hand towards the Lightwarden’s dissolving corpse. The coalescing light flickers, shifts, and then drifts towards her. 

_I will not stand idly by and let you become a sin eater._ The words he didn’t say in Fanow claw their way to the front of his mind. 

Clench. Throb.

Gwen is surrounded by a pale, iridescent mist. He suppresses the urge to shift his weight. _She’s fine. It’s fine._

As the light fades Gwen seizes up and sucks in a breath. She holds herself carefully still for a moment before clutching her chest and nearly doubling over on herself.

Thancred is by her side in a second, the aches of protest for such strain following a few beats later. A flurry of concerns fill his head, more than a few of them involving certain privileged information, but the others have already gathered around them.

Alisaie speaks before he can, “Are you alright?”

“Fine, I just…” Her expression is tight, brows slowly drawing together. She huffs, shifting her hands and testing with her fingers as she straightens up again. “I need to catch my breath is all. Just for a minute.”

The sunset and twilight-colored sky that greets them at the surface is a welcome sight, particularly to Alisaie.

Thancred’s feelings of victory are marred by a mix of irritation and a sense of grim foreboding when the Eulmorans’ retreating airships spoil the idyllic view. The Lightwarden is dead, the Scions and the Warrior of Darkness have won this battle, but the war is still raging. Ran’jit knows that as surely as they do, and he and his troops are running home to shore up their defenses. 

There’s naught to be done about it just then, though. They’re in no state to give chase, and they couldn’t effectively do so without airships, anyway. To make for Kholusia unprepared and unawares would be as good as handing themselves over to Vauthry.

To the Crystarium, then, where they can recover and formulate a plan for their next move. 

Thancred stares off into the hills of Ahm Araeng, keenly aware of his body’s every minute ache and complaint. Has the Crystarium always felt so far away as it does now? Or is that just his bruises and fatigue talking? 

He wearily curses his lost aether for the millionth time. 

No one else brings it up, because they never do.

All they can do is start walking.

Their determination to bull ahead despite fatigue and minor pains hits a snag when they’re confronted with the challenge of returning north without a Talos or a trolley. They’d been so preoccupied they’d forgotten that Ran’jit had damaged the cart and all but destroyed the Talos that drove it.

Thancred sighs. _And after all that work we did to get it functional again._

When no better idea presents itself, Gwen looks skyward and calls out, “Feo Ul!” 

The faerie king is absolutely tickled about being summoned, excited as ever for the chance to be useful to their sapling. They titter and preen briefly before disappearing to call upon the amaro in Twine; domesticated though they may be, they’re still fey creatures. 

Which means the Scions are left to hurry up and wait while the amaro come to them. The ride back will be far swifter and smoother with the aid of the fey beasts than it would be on foot, so no one chafes overmuch at the idea of wasting a bit of time.

Ugh. 

Gwen has spoken about as much on the return journey as she did on the way to the Well, and her general silence continues as they find ways to pass the time until the amaro arrive. On the occasion that her gaze meets Thancred’s she offers a small, tired smile.

He returns it and doesn’t let himself try and puzzle out what she might be thinking. He’s got too much going on in his head as it is. He keeps her in the corner of his eye and watches Ryne conversing with Urianger and Y’shtola about how her newfound abilities might be best used in combat or to augment her skills.

Eventually Gwen wanders over to stand quietly beside him. They stay that way, close but apart, for minutes that feel like bells, watching over the others as they relax in bits of shade and ruminate on the day’s events. He’s not able to read the air between the two of them, traces of tension or awkwardness so faint and slipping by so quickly he’s not quite convinced they aren’t just his imagination.

After what feels like ages she looks down, considering for a moment before reaching out to trail her fingers across his knuckles. 

That craving for affection comes back, a slow ache that creeps steadily through his chest. Soft thoughts pull at him in a way that feels similar to a traveler in the desert thinking of water. His thoughts drift to comforting things and linger there, despite his better judgement. Secure, unhurried embraces that gently nudge loose pieces back into place. Tender murmurs against his cheek, his forehead, the crown of his head, that soothe and soften from the inside out. Calloused hands that brush away clinging shadows and hold him as if he’s precious enough to handle with care. Her forehead pressing against his and her eyes fluttering closed as they share slow breaths; a moment of stillness and contentment, a gesture so benign yet intimate, that lets him forget about everything else.

Thancred labors to pull away from all of those softer, needier things before he becomes too tangled up in them. Not now. Not here. It’s not the time or place for such things.

Even so, he can at least respond to her tentative, inquiring gesture. From the way Gwen is watching their hands, she seems to be waiting for just that.

He hooks a finger around one of hers and smooths his thumb over the back of her hand. 

Gwen’s expression clears and she closes her eyes with a quiet, contented little sigh. Her finger curls loosely around his so it won’t slip free.

Thancred’s shoulders sink a few degrees, and a few anxious, skittering thoughts at the back of his mind settle out.

The encroaching sound of flapping wings and familiar bleating announce that the amaro have finally arrived. Finally, even though it suddenly feels as though it’s only been a minute or two since Feo Ul disappeared in a burst of sparkles.

Gwen’s hand slips from his and Thancred almost feels as though they’ve been interrupted.

Thancred’s head is clearer on the flight back, but while that serves to help lift his mood, it also means he now has room to properly consider a few things he’d set aside before. The way Gwen had stiffened and flinched after absorbing Storge’s light, for one. It’s only the second Lightwarden death he’s witnessed, but he doesn’t remember her flinching like that after Eros. He doesn’t remember her reacting to the light at all, in fact.

His suspicions only grow when they finally arrive at the Crystarium and Y’shtola bids Ryne and Gwen remain behind with her while the rest of them continue to meet the Exarch. She offers no reasons aside from a tone that, while not harsh, brooks no room for argument. 

It isn’t an odd thing in itself, but the timing is too conspicuous to slip his notice. Gwen flinched in the Well and now Y’shtola, who can see the light she’s absorbing and the way it affects her aether, wants a word with her? And asking Ryne, with her newfound abilities with the light, to join them as well… It certainly piques his curiosity, to say the least.

Thancred folds his arms, too weary to compose a sufficiently witty or dry remark about the impromptu private discussion. “Is aught amiss?”

Y’shtola meets his skeptical look with one that is flat and lightly exasperated, thinking he’s simply being nosy. She shoos him away with a flick of her wrist before gesturing for Gwen and Ryne to follow.

“We’ll catch up,” Ryne promises, her light blue eyes thoughtfully preoccupied. 

Gwen curls her hand loosely around Thancred’s and stands close enough that their shoulders touch. She glances at his face and waits, asking a silent question with her look and careful touches just as she had while they’d waited for the amaro.

Worried he’d take her scolding _that_ badly, is she? The idea almost makes him smile.

Thancred squeezes her hand and shifts to press his arm against hers.

She smiles, unmistakably relieved. “We won’t be long.” 

“I should hope not,” he drawls. “Falling asleep during our discussion with the Exarch would be poor form.”

Her eyes crinkle at the corners and she squeezes his hand. Her grip is firm and gentle, and for a moment she feels somehow solid and _whole_ in a way he can’t describe. He wonders if it has to do with the fact that she’s fully on the First, body and soul, whereas he has a foot in both worlds, his body on the Source while his soul is stranded on the First. He’s never really thought about it before. He’s had no reason to.

Gwen’s mumble pulls him out of his head, “I don’t look that tired, surely.”

“You’re barely standing,” Thancred replies matter-of-factly, regaining his briefly discarded wit. “Seems to me like someone overexerted themselves.”

The corners of her mouth lift before she glances at him with exaggerated skepticism. “ _Someone_ indeed.”

Sharp things dull and a few misplaced pieces slot back together. She leans a little more heavily against him before shifting away. He lets her hand slip from his with only a bit of reluctance.

Gwen leaves with Y’shtola and Ryne while Thancred follows the others to the Crystal Tower. 

It’s only a handful of minutes before Y’shtola and Ryne join them in the Ocular. 

Gwen doesn’t.

Thancred mislikes her absence even before Ryne makes the mistake of saying that Gwen hadn’t protested when Y’shtola ordered her to rest. Ryne doesn’t know Gwen well enough to realize how strange it is for her to comply with such a request without so much as an onze of bickering. 

His questioning look towards Y’shtola is joined by Alisaie’s and Alphinaud’s. Ryne cringes, realizing she’s said something she maybe shouldn’t have.

Y’shtola’s answering expression is utterly composed and unconcerned. “It’s about time _one_ of you followed my prescribed instructions without complaint.” 

Her own lack of tells is a tell in itself, and it sits as oddly with Thancred all of the other little things he’s noticed.

No point bringing it up just now, though. Trying to get answers out of Y’shtola now will do nothing but waste time and aggravate them both. While that normally isn’t _that_ much of a deterrent, now is something of an exception. They’ve been through hell today and there’s only more to come, not to mention that he barely has the energy to make the trek to his apartment. He’ll consider it all again once he’s had the chance to clear his head and take proper stock of the situation. 

——

Thancred tries to shelve his concern and questions for the moment, knowing he will get no answers until the morning, even if he does visit Gwen. The idea is much more tempting than it was before, probably because he feels a bit less like sand-filled death. But if he does he shouldn’t ask about–

Someone is at the door.

They aren’t making themselves known, lingering silently outside rather than knocking, but their presence leans on his awareness all the same. He wonders if it’s someone come to make sure he’s heeding all that nagging about taking rest.

He’s half-right.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi I write LONG THINGS. Sorry.  
> Thanks for reading :3 I've been working on this/had it in beta in one form or another for...a _long_ time XDD
> 
> Part 2 to come eventually!
> 
> Thanks to RhymingTeeLookAtMe and Evangeline-Cross on tumblr for beta-reading and suggesting titles, AnomalieWrites and TheDivineMissBlue for helping me decide to go with both :B


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